That throne is cold

that lyre in death unstrung,

On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung.

Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps,

One spot shall spare- the grave where Shakspeare sleeps. Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie,

But Nature's laureate bards shall never die.

Art's chiseled boast and Glory's trophied shore
Must live in numbers, or can live no more.

While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim,
Still rolls the Olympic car in Pindar's fame;
Troy's doubtful walls in ashes passed away,
Yet frown on Greece in Homer's deathless lay;
Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling fanes,
Stands all immortal in her Maro's strains;
So, too, yon giant empress of the isles,
On whose broad sway the sun forever smiles,
To Time's unsparing rage one day must bend,
And all her triumphs in her Shakspeare end!

O thou! to whose creative power

We dedicate the festal hour,

While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand, Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's rose-lipped band Realms yet unborn, in accents now unknown, Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own. Deep in the West, as Independence roves, His banners planting round the land he loves, Where Nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace, In time's full hour shall spring a glorious race.

Thy name, thy verse, thy language shall they bear,
And deck for thee the vaulted temple there.

Our Roman-hearted fathers broke

Thy parent empire's galling yoke ;

But thou, harmonious master of the mind, Around their sons a gentler chain shalt bind ; Once more in thee shall Albion's sceptre wave,

And what her Monarch lost, her Monarch-Bard shall save.

ODE,

Pronounced at the Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Boston,

September, 1830.

I.

Nor to the Pagan's mount I turn

For inspiration now;

Olympus and its gods I spurn

Pure One, be with me, Thou!
Thou, in whose awful name,

From suffering and from shame,

Our Fathers fled, and braved a pathless sea;

Thou, in whose holy fear,

They fixed an empire here,

And

gave

it to their Children and to Thee.

II.

And You! ye bright ascended Dead,

Who scorned the bigot's yoke,

Come, round this place your influence shed;

Your spirits I invoke.

Come, as ye came of yore,

When on an unknown shore

Your daring hands the flag of faith unfurled,

To float sublime,

Through future time

The beacon-banner of another world.

III.

Behold! they come

those sainted forms,

Unshaken through the strife of storms;

Heaven's winter cloud hangs coldly down,
And earth puts on its rudest frown;
But colder, ruder was the hand

That drove them from their own fair land;
Their own fair land refinement's chosen seat,
Art's trophied dwelling, learning's green retreat;
By valor guarded, and by victory crowned,
For all, but gentle charity, renowned.

With streaming eye, yet steadfast heart,
Even from that land they dared to part,

And burst each tender tie;

Haunts, where their sunny youth was passed,
Homes, where they fondly hoped at last

In peaceful age to die.

Friends, kindred, comfort, all they spurned;

Their fathers' hallowed graves;

And to a world of darkness turned,

Beyond a world of waves.

IV.

When Israel's race from bondage fled,

Signs from on high the wanderers led;

But here

Heaven hung no symbol here,

Their steps to guide, their souls to cheer; They saw, through sorrow's lengthening night, Nought but the fagot's guilty light;

The cloud they gazed at was the smoke

That round their murdered brethren broke.
Nor power above, nor power below,
Sustained them in their hour of woe;

A fearful path they trod,

And dared a fearful doom;

To build an altar to their God,

And find a quiet tomb.

V.

But not alone, not all unblessed,

The exile sought a place of rest;
ONE dared with him to burst the knot
That bound her to her native spot;
Her low, sweet voice in comfort spoke,
As round their bark the billows broke ;
She through the midnight watch was there,
With him to bend her knees in

prayer; She trod the shore with girded heart, Through good and ill to claim her part;

In life, in death, with him to seal
Her kindred love, her kindred zeal.

VI.

They come ;

that coming who shall tell?

The eye may weep, the heart may swell,